


Running

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, R/NC-17 - Brown Cortina, Time Period: 1973-1981 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2019-01-20 18:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12438591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: Series Two, the episode with Sam running in that track suit... the one with the dark blue jacket and grey sweat pants... because... well, someone had to write it.





	Running

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).

He’s so out of condition it’s unbelievable. How long has he been here now? Over a year, and in all that time he’s taken no physical exercise whatsoever unless you count chasing villains or lifting pints at the Arms. Which Sam Tyler doesn’t. He needs to get back into condition. He’s not sure why, specifically; just a general sense of needing to be fit and ready for whatever comes next in this weird life. 

 

As he runs, finding a speed and rhythm that feels as comfortable as it’s ever going to, he remembers how back in 2005 he’d found running to be both useful professionally and personally. He’d solved a number of cases by just letting his subconscious work through a problem as he’d pounded the streets. Maybe it will help with their current case. 

 

But ten minutes on, Sam has to admit to himself that it’s not working quite as expected. Instead of turning over the problem of the Whitsun case, he finds his thoughts turning back to the problem of Gene Hunt. Or, to be more accurate, his own reaction to the man. 

 

Because not only is Hunt an enigma, but so is Sam’s gut reaction to him. He should, did and on occasion still does, find the man repulsive. His out-dated bigotry, his sexism, his willingness to use criminal methods to bring down criminals, his bullying ways and his readiness to use his fists and feet on anyone or anything that doesn’t follow his misanthropic rules is anathema to Sam’s sense of moral justice. 

 

But he likes the man. He can’t quite work out why, but he does. There’s something solid and comforting about him, about the way he will defend his team against the world. Gene Hunt is the sheriff, and CID is his frontier town. What he says goes. And you forget that at your peril. Sam has the scars to prove it. 

 

The first time he’d woken up in 1973 with a raging hard-on, he’d been more than slightly disconcerted to realise that he’d been dreaming about Hunt. More specifically, about their fights; about the way Hunt is constantly invading his personal space, breathing cigarette, whiskey and bacon-butty breath over Sam’s face. He realises that whenever he smells Old Spice from now on, it won’t be his father who’ll spring to mind, but Gene bloody Hunt. He’s heard of male bonding, but Hunt takes it to a new art form. Extreme Bonding. 

 

And then there had been the day when Hunt had been showing Sam the error of his ways over the Wilson case, arguing some bloody point or other, and he’d pinned Sam to the wall in the gents. Sam had only gone in there for a ruddy piss, but Hunt had come barging in, all fire and brimstone, acting as if Sam had left the office to avoid the reprimand he was itching to give. Sam had barely managed to tuck himself away before Hunt was grabbing him by the shoulders, spinning him around and slamming him face first against the wall, Sam’s arm twisted up behind his back.

 

‘Why d’you do it, Tyler?’ he’d growled, and Sam had felt Hunt’s spittle on the back of his neck as his DCI leaned in. ‘Why’d you have to fight everything I bloody say?’ He’d emphasised each sentence with a jerk of Sam’s arm which had made Sam gasp in pain, but that was as nothing to the shock Sam had got when he felt Hunt’s erection pressing against his arse. At first he thought he must be imagining it, but no... there it was, solid and warm, unmistakable. 

 

Sam hadn’t been able to frame an answer and with a disgusted snort, Hunt had pulled away and slammed into a cubicle, but not fast enough that Sam was able to spin around and see the bulge in his groin before the door had slammed shut. 

 

‘Guv...’ Sam had ground out, too stunned to be properly angry and entirely disconcerted by the sudden fire in his own loins. 

 

‘I need a dump. Bugger off, Tyler.’ 

 

So that’s what they called it back in 1973. ‘Fine,’ he’d snapped, and drawn several deep breaths before opening the door and fleeing


End file.
